


I'm Not as Think as You Drunk I Am

by lukrezius



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Accidental Bonding, College AU, M/M, Modern AU, One Night Stands, Trans Male Character, University AU, idk tbh, trans napoleon solo, transgender napoleon solo
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-22
Updated: 2016-05-22
Packaged: 2018-06-09 22:27:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,376
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6926179
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lukrezius/pseuds/lukrezius
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Illya likes back muscles, specifically Napoleon's</p>
            </blockquote>





	I'm Not as Think as You Drunk I Am

**Author's Note:**

> This is very random. Its 3:15 in the morning.

"Who are you supposed to be?" 

Illya glanced around, searching for the source of the voice. 

"Down here, Frankenstein," a man says as he hops up onto the barstool next to Illya. A small man, Illya concedes, which is possible why he hadn't seen him initially. He's dressed as- What is he dressed as? Halloween parties are not uncommon places to find extravagant outfits, and this one was no exception, yet Illya found his skintight stretch of dark, scaly fabric strangely foreign in the sea of slutty sailors and sexy doctors. 

The man- a boy really, Illya sees, in the hazy neon gloom, a young man no older than himself- orders a drink from the bartender with a coy tilt of his sharp jaw. Illya notices the smooth curves of his back, the arcing juncture of neck and shoulders. The boy's eyes slant sideways and Illya flushes, turning back to his drink. 

"So, who are you supposed to be?" he repeats, touching the edge of his glass to the corner of his mouth as he turns in his seat to look at Illya.

Illya shrugs, looking down at himself. "James Dean. Who are you?" 

The boy laughed, his sharp teeth catching the light, and Illya feels drunker than he should. The stranger presented his chest to him, gesturing to the yellow S emblazoned on his sternum.

Oh, Illya thought, "Superman?

"Yes, of course." Superman seemed to pause for thought, tilting the alarmingly green liquid in his glass. "Do you want to dance?" Illya raised his eyebrows, not meeting his eyes. Superman flicked a finger at the writhing mass of bodies behind them, caught in a strange, wild, trance of ecstasy and exhilaration.

"I don't dance." Illya said, feeling his accent thicken unwittingly in his discomfort.

"Well, its not dancing, really. Just jumping and- and grinding." Illya tries to ignore how his voice purrs as he finishes his sentence, but he sees the glint of a smile from the corner of his eye as he shakes his head.

"I don't dance."

Illya thought he could see disappointment beneath the sleek, wily confidence, but Superman shrugged, aiming that same coy tilt of impeccable bone structure at him with unnerving accuracy. "Alright. Catch you later." And he slid off the barstool to join the heaving throngs of students, all grasping for a good time.

Illya tries not to watch him throughout the night, yet their eyes meet again and again and again, through strobe lighting and flushed bodies, the haze of smoke and alcoholic breath, under the pounding bass that Illya could feel in his lungs when he inhaled. Illya accepted drinks from strangers and turned down offers of sex, as the boy dressed as Superman rolled against scantily-clad youths, others' hands wrapped around his lithe body as he pulled someone down to him for kiss.

Illya brings his drinks more forcefully down on the bar. 

At some point during the night, Illya's resolve snaps and he leaves, sending a text to Gaby to tell her he won't wait up for her. 

\--

Napoleon sees him leave. He disentangles himself from the people clutching him, freeing the length of his ridiculous cape and turning away from the boy he had been grinding against. He catches up with the stranger as he's about to cross the street, feeling stranger's sweat cooling on his skin as the chill tendrils of night reach him. 

"James Dean." Napoleon said, and he turns, eyes still sharp despite the alcoholic flush on his cheeks. Napoleom feels his eyes roam over him. 

"You are not leaving much to the imagination, Superman."

\--

Illya forgets much of the short journey to his shared apartment, finding it mercifully, but not unexpectedly, empty. Their lips meet in a messy approximation of a kiss almost before Illya has closed the door, and he finds himself revelling in how undone the other looks, how he's managed to break down the mask of slick charm and find the rumpled, wild person beneath. Or maybe, the alcohol had.

"What's- what's your name?" Illya breathed, their exhlations mingling

"Solo." the boy said.

They stumble across rooms, each kiss and touch teaching them about each other, their differences and their desires. They bite into kisses, sucking into every inch of bare skin until Illya feels raw and whole and desperate. Illya runs fingers though inky hair, sliding their tongues together, marvelling in how his hands are large enough to cover the whole sides of the other's head. His leather jacket is long forgotten, and he allows his white t-shirt to be pulled over his head. Superman ran his tongue over Illya's collarbone,before turning and letting Illya drag down the zip on the back of his costume. He pushed it down, peeling his arms out of it before letting it gather around his waist. 

Illya admires his gleaming back muscles for a moment, before the other turns around with a strange expression on his face. Illya reaches for him again, then pauses. Then drops his hands to his sides.

"Oh."

For there are two matching scars under his chest, curved and faded, with a set of even fainter ones leading up to his nipples. And he sees now, how the bulge between Solo's legs was impressive, yes, but was no more prominent than it had been all night, whereas Illya was finding his tight jeans very uncomfortable by now.

"Oh." Illya said again, and Solo took a ragged breath and a half-step back. 

"I can go." he said, reaching up to push his strands of curling dark hair from his face. "I'm sorry, I don't usualy-" 

"No." Illya said, suddenly, reaching out to him.

"You- no?" Solo looked shocked, uncertain. Illya ran a hand back around his torso, pulling him with him until his calves hit the edge of his bed. Illya sat, tugging Solo to stand between his knees, tipping his head up to look at him. "It is okay."

"Are you sure? I am not like.. you are. Anatomically." Solo wet his lips, and Illya followed the movement with his eyes.

"I am sure." Illya said, their faces so close he barely needed to whisper, lost in the endless darkness of Solo's blown pupils. 

\--

Napoleon remembered much of the night before, which did nothing to alleviate his dreadful hangover. He sat slumped in his chair, large dark sunglasses covering his eyes, coffee in one hand, redbull in the other. He had left James Dean's flat early that morning, trying to ignore the way the man he had slept with had not told him to leave, nor rolled over and ignored him. He had sat up, pulling on underwear and watching, rather subdued, as Napoleon dressed himself in borrowed clothes to meander home in. He'd walked home before dawn, narrowly avoiding the walk-of-shame hours. The streets had been cool and empty, and Napoleon felt no regret. This surprised him. It was a rare occurrence, for Napoleon, after a one night stand.

Gaby, a girl he'd taken to sitting next to since the start of term, flopped down next to him in the lecture hall. She was smirking beneath her equally dark sunglasses.

"You'll never guess what I found." she said, lifting her ample handbag up onto her desk. She lifted out an iridescent pile of navy fabric, a flash of yellow, a long trail of red.

His Superman costume. Wait. 

"What?" Napoleon tugs it slowly towards him, trying to speed up the hangover-slow cogs in his brain.

"I found it in my flat. My housemate, he said it belonged to a guy called Solo. He was blushing pretty hard."

"Your housemate, he's.... James Dean?"

Napoleon lifted his eyes to hers. They both burst out laughing.

"Your roomate! Of all the people, Christ." Napoleon said, pressing his forehead to the desk.

\--

"Hey, Illya?" Gaby called, her keys jangling as she opened the door.

"Yes, Gaby?" Illya answered from behind the kitchen counter, crouched down, searching for eggs.

"This is, ah, Napoleon, I think you've- met." Gaby stifled a laugh. Illya frowned.

"I don't know anyone called-" Illya stopped. It was Solo, his once slicked hair now curling and unruly, jeans and a hoodie obscuring the body Illya had ran his fingertips over. Solo- Napoleon smiled sheepishly.

"Hello."

**Author's Note:**

> if anyone wants to talk on whatsapp or possbily imessage about tmfu then let me know! id love to talk about headcanons and fics and maybe beta fics too


End file.
